


keep it professional

by rosielibrary



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Mystery Trio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-04
Packaged: 2019-09-06 23:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16842235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosielibrary/pseuds/rosielibrary
Summary: “I didn’t want you gettin’ in too much trouble,” he mumbles. “Figured me takin’ the hit would be better than you, since you’re my brother’s favorite and whatever.”“Who told you that?”“I can just see it, y’know? He’s always askin’ you about stuff, and you’realwayswith him. He’s always been the smart one.”Stan looks so heartbroken it makes your stomach drop. Were you really Stanford’s favorite?





	1. Chapter 1

“Test four on subject #618 is complete.”

You drop your clipboard on the desk to your immediate left, shoving the sleeves of your white lab coat back up to your elbows. The subject in general, a gnome about a foot tall, sits down on the table in front of you, your boss, and your colleague, mumbling a desolate “Schmebulock” and feeling around where his beard used to sit on his face.

“We’re awfully sorry ‘bout your beard, Mister Gnome,” Fiddleford says, patting the gnome’s pointed hat carefully. “You did cover Stanford in puke, so I guess we’re even, in some convoluted way.”

Your boss in question, Stanford Pines, grimaces at the recent memory of rainbow vomit dripping from his messy hair, which you’d washed out for him.

“Yeah, and it was hilarious, so thanks for that,” another voice chips in, shutting the door behind him with a slam.

Stanley Pines, your boss’s twin brother, strides in with a wink tossed your way, his hand stuck in a bag of Cheez Doodles. Stanford, however, sighs, two of his six fingers reaching up to rub his temple.

“If you get any crumbs on the information we got about– what was your name?”

“Schmebulock,” the gnome answers, still rubbing his chin forlornly.

“Schmebulock, right– then you’re going to be–”

“In trouble, alright, alright,” Stan says, brushing off his brother’s threat. He stands at your side, offering a snack, and shrugs when you shake your head. “What were you even doing to the little thing anyway?”

“Hair tests, mostly,” you reply, tapping your pen to your chin. “X-rays, fingerprints, and we tested to see if he could withstand high amounts of snack foods, and Mr. Pines was the unfortunate victim of that mess-up.”

“Eugh,” Stan shudders, but he stuffs his mouth full of Cheez Doodles regardless.

“Yeah, and the whole beard thing… That’s more of a long story,” Stanford admits, rubbing the back of his head.

“Well, if you’re done, you wanna go get dinner?” Stan’s question is directed to the group, but his eyes fall on you. Ducking away from his gaze, you look down at the papers on the desk and bite your lip in thought.

“We have a few more things we need to do, along with returning– um–?”

“Schmebulock,” the gnome repeats, grey brows furrowed.

“Right, yes– along with returning Schmebulock to his rightful home in the woods, so I’m afraid not.”

Stan’s shrug says he doesn’t mind, but you know in his face that he does. You gingerly reach up and squeeze his shoulder apologetically.

“Rain check, okay?”

He lightens up then, grinning lopsidedly at you before he leaves the way he came in, the packet of Cheez Doodles crumpled up and thrown over his shoulder. The trash hits Fiddleford on the head, and you can’t help but laugh.

— — —

The rain slants across your vision in one fluid motion, your hair plastered to your face and your labcoat uncomfortably heavy on your arms. Stanford and Fiddleford, unaffected by the horrendous weather, tell you to hurry up or they’ll miss any chance of seeing the Gobblewonker at the lake.

Attempting to quicken your pace, you squint at the ground, making sure you don’t lose your footing in the slick surface under your boots. Above your head, the rain seems to stop; you look up to find a bright red umbrella shielding you, and attached to the handle is Stan, looking a few raindrops shy of a wet puppy with his usually styled hair almost flat on his head.

“I thought Mr. Pines told you to stay at the house?” He answers by pressing his finger to his lips, nodding to the bickering scientists twenty feet away.

“I followed ya as soon as it started with this nonsense,” he says, his outstretched palm getting splattered by raindrops. “And I knew Ford’d forget the umbrella, so I came to the rescue!”

His childlike grin is impossible to not reciprocate, and the two of you squelch along in the rain, your conversation interrupted by your sneezes. Fiddleford turns around at one point to say “bless you”, but jerks to a halt when he sees Stan at your side with the umbrella.

“When did you get here?” Stanford turns around at Fiddleford’s exclamation, and his brow scrunches down at the sight of his brother. “I thought Stanford told you to stay at the house.”

You sneeze again, rubbing your arms. All three men look to you, and Stanford’s stern expression falls to a softer one.

“Look, they’re obviously not feelin’ too well,” Stan insists, slinging an arm around your shoulder. “You idiots forgot any sort of umbrella, so I followed after to try’n get you to come back before the rain started.”

Thunder cracks above the trees. You’re shivering under Stan’s arm, and he pulls you closer to him.

“You two nerds can go find this giant monster thing, I’m gonna take them home.” Stan’s plan meets no disagreement, and Stanford glances at you, pushing his foggy glasses up his nose.

“Make sure they get dry and warm soon, then.” 

“I hope you feel better!” The thunder’s rumble drowns out Fiddleford’s call, and Stan turns the two of you around to walk back to the house. The journey is silent until you ask, “Is that really why you followed us out here?”

His grip tightens on your shoulder. “I mean, yeah. And with this giant monster they were goin’ after, I wanted to make sure you were alright. Didn’t want my brother’s better-looking assistant to get hurt.”

You lean your head on his shoulder with a quiet “Thanks”, and you don’t see his pink cheeks.

— — —

“Tell me again, Stanley—“

Stanford looks down at his brother, hunched over and leaning on the edge of your desk.

“— Why you jumped in front of the giant bat before we got any chance of seeing it ourselves?”

He shrugs, followed by a flinch of pain. The giant bat in question managed to slice him across the shoulder and push him to the ground, but it fled before it attacked any of you— meaning you, since Fiddleford and Stanford were at least ten feet away, wondering where said giant bat could be. For a couple of mega-geniuses, they weren’t very bright.

You tell Stan this when the two of them leave, and he smiles at you weakly. As he takes off his jacket, you get the first-aid kit from the drawer in your desk, digging through and finding the bandages.

“Um.” You clear your throat when Stanley turns to you, a brow raised. “I need to see the wound, so you have to…” Gesturing to your shirt awkwardly, Stan gets the message and grins at you, peeling it off with minimal wincing.

He’s well-built, as you’d figured him to be, with just a little pudge. Pushing any of those sorts of thoughts to the back of your head— act natural, it’s just Stan, you tell yourself, even though he stretches his arm up and your fingers fumble with the bandages— you stand in front of him, studying his wound. Sheer luck, really, that you’re not squeamish about blood.

“You don’t need stitches— it’s just a gash, but it’s not deep,” you tell him, cleaning the cut carefully. He stays quiet, but you can feel him watching you. The room floods with a heavy silence for a good five minutes as you unravel the bandages and start rolling them around the gash, having to maneuver it around his chest to fully cover it.

“You saved my life back there.”

Stan tenses, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. You straighten up and look him in the eye, your head tilted in question.

“I, uh. I guess I did.” He shrugs, as he always, always does.

“You’ve always somehow been there for me,” you say quietly, going back to winding the bandage around his shoulder. “When we went looking for the Gobblewonker… And when we found those giant insects, and the Manotaurs a month or so ago, even. You’ve found some way to help me out of the situation if I couldn’t quite do it.”

You pin the bandage closed, but Stan doesn’t move— neither do you. Your hand on his arm traces down to intertwine your fingers with his, and when you look up at him again, his face is as red as yours feels.

“I didn’t want you gettin’ in too much trouble,” he mumbles. “Figured me takin’ the hit would be better than you, since you’re my brother’s favorite and whatever.”

“Who told you that?”

“I can just see it, y’know? He’s always askin’ you about stuff, and you’re always with him. He’s always been the smart one.”

Stan looks so heartbroken it makes your stomach drop. Were you really Stanford’s favorite?

You didn’t really care. 

Your other hand cups his cheek, and he leans into your palm, his focus on his shoes. Pressing your lips together and sucking in a breath, you duck down and kiss his cheek lightly, squeezing his hand.

“Mr. Pines is my boss, Stan.” Your thumb grazes his cheek and he stares at you, stunned. “I have to keep that relationship as such. He didn’t say anything about his brother.”

Stan’s mouth opens and closes like a goldfish, and you laugh, covering your mouth with one hand.

“What do you say about that dinner you mentioned a few days ago?”

Stan practically leaps off the desk, grabs his shirt, and pulls you out the door and towards his car– he’d get dressed on the way, injured shoulder be damned. Stanford and Fiddleford, far in the forest, look up when they hear a car screech on the road, but think nothing of it; the giant bat flies up above the trees and towards the horizon.


	2. time warp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> it's just a jump to the left.
> 
> (word of warning: this fic is from 2015 and unedited!)

“What do you mean you’ve never been to a drive-in movie?”

“I mean that I’ve never been to a drive-in movie, Stan,” you laugh, counting the street lamps as they zip past. “I’ve never had the time, I suppose. I’ve been busy with work and stuff.”

“Well, tonight you’re not— I’ve dragged ya away from Ford and Fidds for some fun! That’s a lotta F’s.” Stan grins, turning to you for a quick second before looking back to the road. True– he’d dashed out the door with you in tow to get dinner, but when the restaurant closed just as you pulled up, he had another bright idea.

“This place is famous for havin’ the best popcorn around. Seriously, you’re gonna want like, three boxes of it, it’s crazy.“

He turns a corner and you find a large, open car park with a giant screen standing at the end, and there’s at least fifty cars already parked. People on rollerblades glide between vehicles holding boxes of popcorn and drinks, and Stan almost hits one (“Shi–oot”) when he stops the car.

A few minutes later, someone knocks on the window; a girl with a mop of brown curls leans down to look at you both.

“Hiya! What can I get y'all tonight?” Her thick Texan accent catches you off-guard but Stan grins at you and her in turn, unclipping his seatbelt.

“Two boxes of popcorn and two sodas– Roxie,” Stan says, glancing down at her nametag. “What movie’s playin’, d'ya know?”

“Ah, mister, it’s the five year anniversary of that Rocky Horror Picture Show, so we’ve got a special screenin’ of that tonight!”

Roxie beams and you get a glimpse of a mouthful of braces. Stan nods, and she skates away, twirling between cars.

“Have you heard of that movie?” Stan asks, leaning his seat back.

“It sounds familiar…” 

You’ve already seen it with some of your friends when it came out. You remember a mad scientist, musical numbers, and, most importantly, Tim Curry in lingerie.

“I’ve not seen it before, so let’s hope it’s good.”

As long as Stan finds Tim Curry in lingerie good, then you hope for the best.

Roxie comes back with the concessions and you undo your seatbelt, taking a piece of popcorn and commenting to Stan that he was right about it being amazing just before the screen flicks on, the regular stream of advertisements playing before the film starts.

“Is this it?” Stan questions the scarlet lips talking on the screen.

“It’s the opening credits,” you tell him, and the lips fade out of screen to show the title of the movie. “It does get better.”

You’re halfway through “Damn It, Janet” when you see Stan scoot a little closer. Since the front seats of his car are a bench instead of two separate chairs, there’s nothing really between you two apart from popcorn kernels. When he’s engrossed in the film you move towards him too, inches at a time. He doesn’t notice until when he scoots again and you’re hip to hip, and you look up at him innocently, tilting your head to the side.

“Everything alright?”

Stan blushes a bright red and nods, turning back to the movie– Brad and Janet’s car just broke down. The two of you sit silent until Dr. Frank N. Furter comes on screen, and you see from the corner of your eye as Stan’s mouth drops.

“Is he—? I, uh—“ He looks down at you and you start laughing, quickly putting popcorn in your mouth as the song plays.

“And I thought the last song was weird,” Stan mutters, and you elbow him in the ribs.

“This is the good part,” you tell him, looking back to the screen as Magenta promptly strips Brad and Janet and takes them upstairs.

“That’s the good part?” Stan smirks at you and you try not to look as embarrassed as you feel.

The movie progresses. Rocky comes to life, Eddie exits it, and Brad and Janet look equally stupefied and horrified as they usually do. Then— oh god, the pink room.

“Are they watchin’ her sleep?” Stan asks you, raising a brow at the screen.

“Wait for it,” you mumble, feeling his arm snake around your shoulders– following an embarrassingly fake yawn. You don’t object (though stifle a laugh) and move forward so you can lean against it. Brad comes into Janet’s room— Wait, that’s not Brad, that’s Frank, and oh dear, your face is as pink as her room is now.

Both you and Stan go very, very quiet. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat and you slurp at your drink, trying not to catch his eye. Of course one of the most scandalously lewd movies plays on, quite effectively, your first date with him.

The beginning of “Touch-a Touch-a Touch-a Touch Me” brings another silence in the car, and you look up at Stan, who’s staring at the screen with his head tilted to one side, popcorn being dropped into his mouth one piece at a time. You look away as you adjust yourself in the seat, sitting straighter, and, so casually you’re almost Casual Fridays themselves, put your hand on his thigh.

Stan doesn’t notice at first, but when he does, you feel his eyes burning into the side of your face. You ignore him, and he turns back to the movie— you slide your hand to his inner thigh and he physically jolts in his seat.

Meanwhile, Janet and Rocky get it on in Rocky’s weird box container.

You continue to watch without acknowledging Stan’s focus on the film faltering. He doesn’t tell you to stop— you know that if he did, you would, of course, you didn’t want to make him uncomfortable—

But since he slinks down a little in his seat, opening his legs a few inches, you think he’s fine with it.

The awkward dinner on-screen between the characters passes by both of you, as much as you’d like to pretend. His bottom lip taken between his teeth, Stan’s breathing is ragged as your hand travels, but you stop as your fingertips reach the inseam of his jeans.

“This is where the plot goes all weird, pay attention.” You retract your hand (after grazing it against him, causing a satisfyingly frustrated sigh) and pay full attention to the film, grabbing your box of popcorn and plopping it on your lap. Stan “huh”’s under his breath, but a scream from the screen makes him flinch in surprise, even if he’s watching you instead.

“I can’t believe—“

“Can’t believe what, Stan?” You turn to face him, trying and failing to stop the smirk that tugs at your lips.

“You know what you’re doin’. D-Don’t even.” Stan rolls his eyes, but he stutters over his words when your hand goes to his cheek, tracing down to his chin.

“Am I doing okay, then?” You meet his gaze and quirk a brow.

He doesn’t reply, unless a low growl and his hand on the small of your back counts. Stan kisses you hard, pulling you against his chest, deemed difficult when you’re both sitting vertically in the carseats. Regardless, you reach around to the back of his head and deepen the liplock, breathing in sharply when Stan’s teeth tug at your bottom lip.

“As much as I enjoy givin’ the people beside us a show,” he mutters into your ear, nipping at the shell, “Would you wanna get outta here?”

You pretend to be interested in the film again— it’s near enough the end, since all but three characters turned into statues as Dr. Frank N. Furter prepares his grand show (if you haven’t seen the film, you’ll get it when you watch it, believe you me).

“Put your seatbelt on first.”

“Nah.” 

Stan doesn’t give you much warning before starting the car, the vroom making the couple on your right jump and pull apart from each other. He backs out of the space and away from the drive-in theater, the stray popcorn on the seat between you sliding back and forth as he turns the corner back onto the road. You collide with him on a harsh left, instinctively grab his arm to keep from falling out yourself, and he laughs, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

“Mr. Pines isn’t expecting us back for a while,” you muse, and Stan squeals to a halt to avoid hitting a large truck. “We don’t have to go back to the house yet, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah?” He stops at a red light and leans back against the seat— you take your chance. You sit up on your knees and gently push his head to one side before not-so gently leaving a bruise at the base of his neck, humming in amusement at Stan’s sudden gasp and loud moan when you reach down to palm at him through his jeans. The car in front of you starts moving and you stop, pecking Stan’s cheek as you go back to your spot beside the window, clicking your tongue cheekily at him as he drives.

“Fuck you,” Stan breathes, the first word drawn out in a long sigh.

“Find a place to stop and you can.”

He floors it.

Screeching around the corner, he pulls into an abandoned parking lot for a Sparky’s Supermarket, the lights inside turned off and the tarmac illuminated only by the street lamps surrounding it. Stan pulls into a darker corner and parks, turning the car off and rolling the windows up.

“Found one.“

He leans his seat back, muttering about the handle getting stuck while you swing one leg over his two and plop yourself down atop his lap, getting his attention instantly. Stan grins before he kisses you again, his hands on your hips as yours cup his face. He pulls away after a minute and you look down at him, your fingers running through his hair.

“You okay?”

He’s out of breath, his cheeks tinted pink, but he nods, letting his head fall forward on your shoulder.

“Just kinda… In awe, I guess.”

There’s a mix of a “huh” and a “what” that escapes you, sounding more like a “hut”. Stan laughs quietly, winding his arms around your middle.

“I never thought you’d actually wanna… That’d you’d.. Y’know. Be doin’ this stuff in my car.”

“Stan…” You bring his face up to yours, bending so your foreheads press together. “I started it.”

“And I coulda sworn I was dreamin’ when you did,” he says, and you roll your eyes to the side, trying to play off how red your face feels.

“Shut up, you dork.”

You get to work on leaving another hickey on his neck (thank goodness you’re in a car, you can basically be as loud as you want) as he pulls at your shirt. He hikes it over your chest and you pull it over your head yourself, draping it over the back of the seat to avoid getting popcorn bits on it.

You’re suddenly very cold and feel very exposed. He meets your eye with a dopey smile tugging on his lips, pulling you back down to them as he explores the newly exposed skin. Careful fingertips trace up your spine and around your ribs, making you squirm— you were always ticklish. Stan recognizes that and tickles your sides, your giggles quickly muffled by him kissing you, his palm at your cheek, the opposite hand at your breast, squeezing against the cup of your bra. You moan into his mouth and your teeth clamp on his bottom lip while you tug his t-shirt over his head. It’s tossed with less grace to the backseat, which he doesn’t seem to mind about, twisting the two of you (somehow, in the cramped space of the car) so you’re lying across the bench of the front seat with him atop you.

“Are you still—?”

“Stan, I swear to god.” You say it jokingly, of course, blowing your hair from your face and looking up at him. “Yes, I’m sure.”

“I just— You’re so smart, workin’ with Ford, and you’re so beautiful, y’know? Like, when he first introduced me to you as his assistant, I thought he was kiddin’. You’re the hottest nerd I know.”

“I-Thank you,” you mumble, astounded for a moment as he stares down at you, dazzled. The only time you’d heard him so sincerely speak was when he was making the argument that Canadian bacon was the best pizza topping. “Wow.”

“Can I take your pants off now?”

You burst out laughing. Stan’s face goes redder.

“Yes, Stan. You can.”

He beams at you like a kid on Christmas and sits back on his heels, slightly hunched over, before unbuttoning your jeans and struggling them off your legs, where they’re placed over your shirt on the back of the seat. Pressing kisses to your jaw and neck, he’s muttering compliments under his breath as he travels down your torso, reveling in your gradually reddening face. Stopping at the slope of your breast, he reaches around you to unclip your bra and slip it off your shoulders. His staring makes you look away once it’s off, and you swallow hard, biting your lip. It doesn’t seem to faze him, though: he glances up at you before he ducks and flicks his tongue over your nipple, and you feel his grin when you gasp, arching into the touch. 

His hand moves from your hip to between your legs, shaking and nervous becoming bold as you slowly separate your knees for more access. Risk-taking fingers slide up and he breathes a stuttered exhale of disbelief when he feels how wet you are. Your moan dissolves in your mouth to a quiet whimper, and Stan’s low chuckle follows before he kisses you again. You raise your hips to meet his, trying to get any sort of friction you can, especially with the lack of space. Dying to flip the two of you over so you can take over, but you might accidentally honk the horn and gander unnecessary attention to the car with the steamed up windows. Another time, you decide, another time with more space.

Stan’s finger loops into the hem of your underwear and you let him pull them off, tossed to the backseat for you to find later. Stan’s gaze rakes over you and the dork is sucked away from his entire aura; his eyes are dark, he’s breathing heavy. You aren’t sure what triggered the change, but you know you like it. A lot.

He pulls his wallet from his back pocket and finds a condom; Always prepared, you joke, and he winks down at you. Jeans and boxers shuffle off and the rubber rolls on– you look away as he slowly pushes into you, eyes winced shut, mouth open in gasps and whimpers until it’s comfortable. Stan waits until you nod at him once before he pulls out and back in, and both of you moan in unison– you catch his eye.

You can’t help it. A spurt of giggles escapes and you’re both laughing at the same time as fucking and it’s confusing to your senses, but Stan leans down on his forearms and kisses you deeply, your arms winding around his middle, and he pulls away to hide in the crook of your neck, mumbling that you’re a dork, and you sigh a “takes one to know one” in reply.

With that sudden break out of the way, he gets back to business. Stan thrusts into you slowly, at first, getting used to the feeling himself, and he quickens the pace when you hiss at him to hurry up because you’re dying here and he’s driving you mad with teasing (he stares down at you in shock before an almost primal expression takes over). That sets the pace for a while, and you can tell he’s close from the constant swearing breathed against your neck and the harshness of the biting— you’re going to have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow under your labcoat, damn it, Stan— but you’re a bit busy think about that too much. Stan manages to balance on one forearm and two fingers from his other hand rub your clit in hard, fast circles; your whine of his name follows his growl of yours. You’re grabbing at his back and your nails dig furrows across his skin– you’ll have to remember to check out his back once you’re, well, not fucking.

Which might well be soon. Stan buries himself deeper in you and you hear him moan your name against your shoulder, biting down hard before he comes, speeding up, and you follow soon after, blood roaring in your ears and your heart thudding in your chest when you groan in release, shoulders digging into the cracked leather of his car seats as your back arches.

“Jesus,” he pants, collapsing against your chest. “That was… Woah.”

“I’m pretty good at the “woah” part.” 

He snorts, pressing his lips to your bitten shoulder. Stan pulls out and sits up, wraps the condom in a tissue from the box on the backseat and stuffs it into the door’s compartment pocket. He leans across the seat and grabs his clothes, but you steal his shirt before he gets a chance to put it on and smooth it over your chest, where your arms fold across. He grins at you and you lean forward to kiss him before finding your underwear in the back, bending over the back of the seat to grab it. A smack to your ass follows and you jolt, sitting back down to meet Stan’s innocent eye.

“What? It was there. I took my chance.”

You roll your eyes, squirming around in the seat to pull your underwear and jeans back on. Stan does the same, but since you’ve got his shirt on, he forgoes that.

“That was way more than just “dinner”,” you remember, and Stan’s eyes go wide.

“Shit. Ford’ll be wondering if we got eaten by something,” he says, turning his car on and checking the clock. “Or he’ll be asleep. Whoops.”

12:18AM blares at you in lime green from his car’s radio, and you click your seatbelt on, leaning over and giving Stan a peck on the cheek.

“It’s cold in here, let’s get back.”

Stan stops you at the front door of the house invites you to stay with him that night— he stammers through “nothing else like that I mean–” before confessing he wants you to just to sleep with him, in the most basic form of the word. Dork. You take him up on it, upstairs into Stan’s room and stifling giggles when he wraps you up in a hug and peppers your cheeks in kisses. 

However… You wake up the next morning sore, Stan’s back striped with scratch marks, and your neck dotted with bruises, along with your shoulder having very obvious bite marks. A bit less cutesy, to say the least.

When Ford asks you about it that afternoon, you say you saw some sort of wild animal on your way to work. Stan drops his can of soda on the floor and ignores Fiddleford’s mutter of “I’ll get the mop.“


End file.
